The Museum of Confiscated Property

By Peter Howard

THE CARDINAL RULE OF THE MUSEUM OF CONFISCATED PROPERTY IS THAT CONFISCATED ITEMS ARE NEVER RETURNED ...

 

Maria Cordobes's quiet, rather uneventful life as curator of the Museum of Confiscated Property in Clerkenwell spirals out of control when her desperate brother begs her to send him money to pay his gambling debts to a shady gang in Barcelona. Then a blackmailer demands the return of an ancient Egyptian statuette reputed to have the Hyaena Stone of prophecy as one eye and the Elixir of Life in its belly, and Maria is forced to choose: abandon her brother in his hour of need or break the law and go against everything she believes in.

 

Things get even more complicated when her friend Jake Martin, an actor who goes to extreme lengths to prepare for his roles, tells Maria there's someone stalking her…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yorkstone Press
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739690915

Peter Howard

Peter Howard is an alumnus of the Faber Academy "Writing a Novel" course. He lives in Hertfordshire and spends as much time as possible in his writing shed. Other books: The Miraculous Music of Clara Martinelli, a magical realism novel set in Nepal and England; The Certain Guilt of an Innocent Man, a political thriller set in West Africa and London. To find out more about Peter, to sign-up to his newsletter or order his books, please visit www.peterxhoward.com. You can connect with Peter on www.facebook.com/peterhowardauthor. He would be delighted if you sent him an email to [e-mail]

Book preview

1

On this cold, grey February afternoon it was business as usual at the Museum of Confiscated Property.

The curator, Maria Cordobes, had welcomed four visitors in the morning and her three afternoon visitors would soon reach the end of their tour. Two of these, the elderly Hutchinsons from Carlisle, whispered to one another as they moved from one display case to the next. They both started when the telephone bell shattered the silence.

Maria grabbed the handset in a second. ‘Museum of Confiscated Property. Good afternoon.’

‘Maria, I need your help.’

It took her a couple of seconds to register that the barely audible voice belonged to her brother. ‘Hello, Carlos. There are visitors in the museum, I’ll have to call you back.’

‘Soon, please, Maria. It’s important.’

Her brother saying ‘please’? And whispering? Must be trouble. ‘Yes, very soon.’

She turned back to the couple in Gallery 1: Gwen Hutchinson looked bored, ready to go, but Dr Ian bent his long back and serpentine neck and reinspected the pocket knives on the lowest shelf of the first display case. He examined each one and studied their labels, staring for what seemed to Maria to be several minutes at the handmade switchblade with two coupling skeletons carved into its slightly cracked bone handle. She’d rewritten the labels of every item on display herself, implementing a methodical system that documented the object’s place of confiscation, its date of confiscation and the reason behind its confiscation. She knew every label by heart and ran through the switchblade’s details in her head: The Marquee Club, Wardour Street, London; November 1964, David Bowie’s first appearance there with the Manish Boys; illegal weapon.

Dr Ian whistled.

Maria shifted from one foot to the other. What had Carlos done now? Not for the first time, she wished she didn’t run the museum single-handed.

In answer to her prayers, the doctor uncurled himself, coughed, and said to his wife, ‘Right.’

Gwen Hutchinson smiled at Maria. ‘Thank you so very much. It’s been most interesting.’

Dr Ian made to follow her through the door and onto the stairs down to the street, but then changed his mind. ‘One last look at the sword sticks, I think.’

Maria followed him to the tall case beside the entrance to her workroom. The six sword sticks on the upper shelf were all fully sheathed, but two of the six on the lower shelf were not. Dr Ian craned over to inspect the German one with the handle carved to look like the head of a black forest bear (Munich Beer Festival; September 1971; dangerous weapon). Its shaft – about thirty inches long – emerged from a finely tooled silver ferrule and tapered to a deadly point that rucked the green-baize base.

‘Ah, the stick is briar wood, of course – explains that lovely gnarling. I missed that first time round. Is it very valuable?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Maria said, even though she knew it was worth over £3000. Robert, her predecessor, had suggested she respond to all such questions with vague answers. ‘The English hallmarks on the silver mounts are nineteenth century. It’s one of my favourites too.’ She forced a smile.

‘I’m surprised the owner didn’t want it back.’

‘The museum has a strict policy of neither returning nor selling confiscated items, but in this instance there was no owner to attempt such a claim. A security guard at the Munich Beer Festival sent it to us, with a note explaining that the man who owned it got involved in a fight and was carried away in a box. My predecessor assumed he meant the man had died.’

‘I thought there had to be an interesting story attached to such a forlorn bear. How very satisfying.’ Dr Ian straightened up, immediately bent down for one more look, and sighed before he finally turned away. ‘Well, my wife is waiting, I suppose I’d better go.’ On his way out, he stuffed two £20 notes into the donation box.

Maria went straight through into Gallery 2 and asked the other visitor if he wanted any help. She tried not to make it obvious that she wished he would hurry up so she could call Carlos back.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘one question and then I will leave you in peace.’

She clearly hadn’t been as subtle as she’d intended.

‘Can you tell me what this is?’ He pointed to the book-form portable camera obscura on the middle shelf of the optical equipment case. ‘The label says it was confiscated at Tripoli airport but does not explain how it works.’

Of course he’d chosen her favourite object. Ever since her parents had taken her to the Torre Tavira camera obscura in Cadiz, she’d been fascinated by these intriguing contraptions. Carlos might be waiting but she couldn’t deny her visitor the chance to share in the magic.

She unlocked the case and carried the instrument to the table by the window. A book-shaped box of about fifteen inches square provided the base for four slender wooden panels that formed an open-topped pyramid, which in turn supported the lens and mirror box. She pointed the lens aperture into the room and looked through the spy-hole in the side of the pyramid. She turned the focus knob to sharpen the image of the display case beside the door to Gallery 1 which was projected onto the white paper at the base of the box. ‘Look through this hole, please. The cloth-covered aperture in the side of the book is so that you can put your hand inside to trace the image.’ She stood aside to let the man look. ‘I believe the Libyans suspected it could be used for espionage.’

‘Remarkable. An ingenious instrument.’ He pulled away and smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Miss Cordobes, for a fascinating diversion. It looks like the whole contraption folds down into the box.’

‘That’s correct – so that it looks like a large old book. In this case, mid-eighteenth century.’

‘A worthy museum piece.’

Yes, Maria thought, one of the few objects in here that is. She was tempted to show him one of her own camera obscuras, the one she had set up in her workroom to project an image of the street onto a screen inside a dark box but she really had to ring Carlos.

Five minutes later, she stood by her desk opposite the landing door, hand on the telephone, and listened to him descend the stairs. As soon as she heard the front door click, she lifted the receiver and dialled her brother’s number. He answered instantly.

‘Has something happened, Carlos?’

‘It’s my own fault, I know. I shouldn’t ask you.’ His voice was a high-pitched croak. ‘I’m always asking you for help. What an idiot. I can’t think what to do. I thought of running—’

‘It’s OK, Carlos. Just tell me. What’s your fault? What happened?’

‘They said they would break my legs.’

‘What?’ An electric shiver ran across her skull.

‘I was winning every hand, but then... then... then...’ The words seemed to be stuck in his throat. ‘Then I lost it all and so much—’

‘You idiot! You promised,’ she shouted. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Just tell me everything, and I mean everything, and we’ll make a plan.’

‘That’s all...’

She heard a cough, or was it a sob, and her own throat tightened. She looked up at the uneven, cracked plaster on the ceiling and told herself not to weep, but when she said ‘Carlos?’, it came out as a gasp.

‘I lost. I... Sorry.’

His words were drying up; he must be terrified – he never cried. Maria closed her eyes and pinched the top of her nose to hold back the tears. A sigh stuck in her chest like a stopped heartbeat, then puffed down the phone line. She disguised it with a cough and said, ‘How much did you lose?’

A sucking sound, like a deep breath through pursed lips, then, ‘A lot, too much.’

‘Five thousand?’

‘More.’

‘Ten?’ It couldn’t be more than ten thousand euros.

Silence. He’d hung up. No, she could hear distant traffic, a horn, a dog’s bark. She waited.

‘Twenty.’

‘Twenty thousand!’ The words spurted from her mouth. ‘But that’s almost my whole year’s salary.’ She dropped into the chair and let her head slump into her free hand. Twenty thousand or they would break his legs. Think, think, think. How could she raise twenty thousand? Her head jolted up. ‘Wait, who are these people?’

‘Will you help me, Maria?’

‘Don’t be stupid, Carlos, of course I’ll help you.’ Her tearfulness had gone, her jaw was now clenched in anger. ‘Now tell me, who are these people?’

‘Just men, gamblers like me.’

‘So you would break someone’s legs if they didn’t pay you what they owed?’

‘Of course not.’ He spat out the words.

At least he’d found his voice. ‘Then tell me – gangsters, Mafia, who?’

‘No.’

‘Then I can’t help you.’

Neither spoke. Why had she said that? She waited again, hardly breathing. After what seemed like minutes, he spoke.

‘The Cardoso brothers.’

‘Who are they? Criminals – what?’

‘Oh God, Maria, they’re very heavy. I know someone who didn’t pay, and—’

‘Don’t tell me.’ Her mouth was so dry. She tried sucking to produce saliva but none came. ‘I don’t have anything like that amount of money.’

‘I know.’

‘You could ask Papa to lend you the money.’

She heard panting, pictured him shaking, weeping, about to faint.

‘Carlos?’

‘I can’t. I borrowed from him last time.’

Her own legs shook. ‘Last time? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I... I promised him I would stop playing poker. I just can’t ask him again.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘In the street, watching my apartment block, in case...’

How could this be happening? But it was real, this nightmare. Things could go wrong. What if he fought back? They could kill him. She wracked her brain. Who would lend her the money? Not the banks, not on her salary; and she didn’t know anyone else with money. Even Angela was broke after her unpaid sabbatical in Tanzania. And she had nothing to sell, except... No, she couldn’t sell her portable camera obscuras, not after all the trouble she’d gone to seek them out, save up for them, repair them. They’d become part of who she was, her very own tiny museum of historic objects, each with its own story to tell. ‘I could sell...’ Her turn for the words to get stuck in her throat, her parched, closed-up throat, ‘... my camera obscuras. They might be worth about three thousand pounds.’ She’d said it, and now that she had, it felt like the right thing to do. To help her little brother as she always did, as it was her duty to, because she loved him and would always take care of him. ‘And I have about eight hundred pounds in the bank.’

‘You’d sell them for me?’

‘Of course. You are more precious to me than a bunch of old instruments.’

‘But they want it all. That person I told you about who didn’t pay them tried to give them less.’

‘When?’

‘When what?’

Dios, he was cracking up. ‘When do they want their money?’

‘Five days. On Monday night.’

She heard the sucking noise again. He was smoking. Why did that incense her, when his life was in danger? Five days. Impossible.

‘What about something in your museum?’

‘What do you mean? Dios, Carlos, how could you even think such a thing? Me steal from my place of work?’ She pulled the sweaty handset from her ear and made to slam it down.

‘Of course. I’m sorry, Maria. But you’ve got to help me.’

She was his only hope. She put the phone back to her ear. ‘You’re my brother – of course I’ll help you.’ But how? She mustn’t let him feel abandoned. God knows what he might do. She concentrated, kept her voice calm. ‘Look, let me think about what we can do. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ She ran her free hand through her hair. ‘And Carlos?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please don’t do anything stupid like trying to steal the money.’

As she put down the phone, she heard the familiar creak of the front door’s hinges, followed immediately by the softer click of the latch. She was sure she’d heard the door close after the last visitor. Maybe it hadn’t closed properly and the wind had just now blown it shut. She should have checked it; normally she did that automatically when the last visitor left. Her heart began to race – maybe someone had got in and was waiting for her on the stairs...

She braced herself, ran out of the room and peered down the staircase. No one. She raced down, pulled open the door and stared down the street. No one there either. She spun round and looked the other way, caught a glimpse of a running figure near the corner – short dark hair, leather jacket, gone. She started to follow him but halted on the pavement and stuck her arm out to stop the door slamming. No keys. Adrenalin pumped through her. Who was he? What did he want? A thief? Or maybe the running man was a coincidence, maybe the door had just blown shut. She stepped inside, made sure the door was properly shut this time and, still out of breath, plodded up the stairs.

Back at her desk, she stared straight ahead, unseeing, and didn’t move for a long time, probably more than an hour. Still no solution presented itself. At five o’clock she set the alarm, locked up, and walked to Clerkenwell Road to catch a bus home to Tufnell Park.

The flat seemed drab, monochrome, and all she could do was sit at the kitchen table and gaze at the wall. If only she worked somewhere respectable instead of in a glorified bric-a-brac emporium that no one took seriously, she would have the prestige and the salary to help her brother. When she had more experience, she would apply again for the position of assistant keeper at the British Museum. But that was the future. Right now, family came first. And especially Carlos.

Growing up in Barcelona, she and Carlos had been inseparable, even though she was five years older. She sorted out his problems, stepped in when he was bullied and, most important, never divulged his secrets. OK, so he took up most of her free time, but what else was there to do? She couldn’t stand the pointless gatherings of girls talking about fashion and boys, much preferred her books and Carlos, and of course their frequent visits to the fantastic Barcelona museums. She smiled at the image of a whingeing Carlos, moaning about not another boring museum, having to bribe him with ice creams and sweets.

She got up and closed the kitchen blind. We’re so different, aren’t we, Carlos. You are easy-going, spontaneous, an emotional crackerjack. And then there’s me: always worried the worst will happen, unable to do anything without a clear plan.

Like now.

At midnight she got into bed, but each time she closed her eyes they snapped open. The Cardosos were going to break his legs. Maybe worse. She turned on the bedside light. Perhaps, just this once, she could take something from the museum and sell it? Who would care? Who would even know? Certainly not the trustees, who took no interest in the specific details of the museum’s collection. And it wasn’t as though visitors were drawn to the objects themselves: it was the circumstances of their confiscation that appealed, and there was no shortage of fascinating stories there.

Surely nothing was as important as preserving Carlos’s life. Helping him was what any sensible person would do. Maria switched off the light, turned on her side and tried not to think any more about it.

2

Jake Martin left the open script of Life and Times of Michael K on the bench at the top of the walled garden in Holland Park and walked down the path between the flower beds. He shivered in the cold February air and buttoned up his coat. He had ten weeks until the first rehearsal and he was determined to have memorised the entire play, all the parts, by then.

Two gardeners were planting bulbs, evenly spaced, in one of the beds. It looked easy, something even he, with his complete lack of horticultural experience, could manage. He was searching for ways to help him get under the skin of his new stage character, Michael K, and he wondered if becoming a volunteer gardener in this pristine royal park might be a good start. Every role demanded that he try to discover his character’s life in its entirety, to give him a chance of convincing other people, but it required totally different work each time. Was this park the place to begin that transformation, the place that would teach him how to become Michael K rather than just represent him?

On the face of it Coetzee’s novel was set in another world. The protagonist, a forty-year-old black South African with a cleft lip, lived in a men’s hostel and worked as a gardener in a municipal park in Cape Town. But having read the book and the playscript many times, Jake was sure that Michael chose gardening work because it meant he would be left alone. It was the work and not the location that was important, so what did it matter that there were few similarities between a South African city park in the middle of a civil war and a royal park in one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in London? He frowned, not yet convinced.

He stopped to gaze at the pansies in the lower part of the garden, and wondered whether the harmonious distribution of colours was random or by design. His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. That would have to go, along with his flat, his money, his wardrobe full of clothes... Everything except a sleeping bag and one change of clothes.

‘Hi, Adam.’ He retraced his steps back to the bench.

‘Jake, how’s it going?’ Adam didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Look,  how do you fancy playing some bridge again? It would be you, me, Rachel, and Angela of course – just like the old days.’

Bridge? That wasn’t going to work. He’d already decided that from tomorrow he would properly start on his life as Michael K, and Michael K wouldn’t even know what bridge was and certainly wouldn’t be comfortable sitting around in Adam’s carefully crafted modernist house. ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Adam. Too busy with a new script.’

‘It was Angela’s idea. She particularly asked for you to be there.’

Angela had asked for him! Jake’s hands were blocks of ice, but his head was suddenly on fire. Sweat slimed the handset. He’d managed not to think about her for so long, and even the dreams had become less frequent, but now, at the simple mention of her name, a kaleidoscope of images crashed into his mind.

He and Angela had always been so at ease with each other, talking and laughing when everyone else had gone to bed, walking all over London without getting tired... Right up until that disastrous day seven years ago when he’d tried to kiss her.

Was Adam messing with him? ‘You bastard, you’re having me on.’

‘No, seriously, man, she called me up out of the blue, said she’d seen Rachel and they’d reminisced about what a laugh it used to be.’

~

Four days later, Jake rapped on the opaque glass door of Adam’s Highgate house to be met by Adam with a glass of Scotch in his right hand.

‘Jake, how the hell are you, man? Bloody good to see you.’ His South African accent was more pronounced after a few drinks. ‘Come in, come in. Like a Scotch?’

‘No, thanks, just water.’

‘Don’t tell me – getting into character?’

‘Something like that.’

‘The ladies are already here.’

Christ, there was no going back now. Was he blushing? He checked the mirror, but its smoky glass was no help. He was certainly hot. Since the phone call he’d tried not to think too much about Angela but had failed utterly. Was there really a chance she might have changed her mind about him? He followed Adam into the open-plan living/dining room.

‘Hello, Jake.’ She dashed across the polished parquet floor and hugged him, kissed him on the cheek. Her rose scent overwhelmed him like a virus. She pulled back but held onto him, ensnaring him with smiling eyes and that smiling scarlet mouth.

‘Angela.’

She looked different but hadn’t changed at all. Words wouldn’t form, obliterated by flashes of the last time, when she’d pushed him away as their lips had been about to touch and had then laughed it off as if it were one of his jokes.

‘You look...’

He willed himself not to say ‘well’.

‘You look well, Angela.’

He clenched his jaw muscles. Idiot!

‘Hi, Jake. Don’t hog him, Angela.’ After Angela’s embrace, Rachel’s hug and smile were like those of an ageing aunt.

‘Great to see you, Rachel. You haven’t changed at all. Except the hair, I love the short hair, really suits you.’ He was babbling. He had to get a grip.

‘Let’s all sit down, have a drink or three before we start.’ Adam gripped Jake’s elbow and moved him towards the white leather Barcelona chair. ‘Lots of catching up to do.’

Angela and Rachel perched on the edge of the sleek grey sofa opposite and grinned at him. Adam fussed with top-up drinks and waved a bottle of Prosecco at Jake, who shook his head.

‘So, what are you working on, Jake?’ Rachel said. ‘By the way, I loved Heart of Darkness. You were so convincing as Kurtz; I couldn’t believe it was you. Angela, I remember you said it was as though he was Kurtz, not just pretending to be him.’

Jake tried to dispel the frown with a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Angela had seen Heart of Darkness, had noticed him, was impressed by him! Why hadn’t she come backstage or waited outside?

‘Thanks.’ He tried not to stare at her, but his gaze wandered of its own accord.

‘Yes, you were brilliant, Jake.’ Angela’s bare knees, pressed together, edged forward.

Now he could look straight at her. Her golden hair, freshly washed no doubt, was tied back just the way he liked it.

‘So, what’s the latest project?’ Rachel said.

‘It’s a play based on a novel by your fellow countryman, JM Coetzee – Life and Times of Michael K. Have you read it?’

‘No, afraid not.’

Adam sat down next to Angela. ‘I’ve read Disgrace, and one or two others, but not that one.’

‘What’s it about?’ If Angela moved any closer, she’d fall off the sofa.

‘It’s the story of a poor black man with a cleft lip who spent his childhood in institutions and now works as a gardener in Cape Town. He also looks after his mother, a domestic servant to a wealthy family. South Africa descends into civil war, martial law is imposed, and Michael’s mother becomes very sick. He decides to quit his job and return his mother to her birthplace, a distant town – Prince Albert.’

‘Adam and I went there on holiday once,’ Rachel said. ‘Sorry, carry on.’

‘Michael can’t get the proper permits to travel out of the city by train so he builds a shoddy rickshaw to transport his mother, and they go on their way. His mother dies almost immediately, but Michael carries on anyway, determined to deliver her ashes to Prince Albert.’

‘What, so you, a thirty-year-old white middle-class intellectual, are going to try to act as a poor black guy with a hare lip?’ Adam took a heavy slug of Scotch. ‘Or isn’t that your part?’

‘He did Kurtz, didn’t he?’ Angela frowned at Adam, then turned back to Jake.

Those eyes... He could disappear into them.

‘Yah, but Kurtz was a white guy gone native. This sounds like another sort of transformation altogether. Don’t you think you’ve gone too far this time, Jakey boy?’

He hated ‘Jakey boy’; it made him sound like an adolescent. ‘Maybe, we’ll see.’ He didn’t look at Adam but turned instead to face Rachel. She was a much more sympathetic ear than her brother. Unlike Adam, she wasn’t jealous of Jake, didn’t try and make him feel as if everything was a competition – school friends, jobs, women... ‘There’s something about this Michael K character that really appeals to me...’ He looked over at Angela, wondered if he should carry on. ‘He really gets to the essence of things, peels away the layers—’

‘And that’s what you do in your acting, right – get to the essence of things?’ Rachel interjected.

Jake gave a weak smile. ‘I guess so...’ He gave another sideways glance at Angela, leaned back against the hard, white leather.

‘Agh, man, how can you become someone else? It’s all just acting.’

Jake glared at Adam. That old jealousy was obviously rearing its head again.

‘Ignore him, Jake,’ Angela said.

She must have noticed his anger. So she was interested.

‘But how do you actually go about it?’ she continued. ‘How do you become someone else?’

He looked straight into her eyes; the rest of her face became a blur. ‘I glean everything I can by reading the script, and in this case the book as well, many times. I become familiar, intimate with the character, their background, the environment they are in, the conflicts they face, what they want, what they need, how they change as the story unfolds. Then I try to do what the character does in the play.’ She hadn’t looked away. The longer he looked, the more her eyes gleamed.

‘So, with Michael K?’

‘I won’t be able to replicate his experiences after he leaves the Cape – he is interned in a work camp, then later in a military rehabilitation camp, and he spends a long time in a cave living off grubs and lizards – but I can simplify my life, do without the distraction of material possessions and a roof over my head, become exposed.’ He didn’t want to hide anything from Angela, but he’d already said too much; the last thing he wanted was for Adam to try and track him down once he’d moved out of his flat.

‘What, do you mean you’ll live on the streets?’ Angela said.

‘It’s difficult to explain...’

‘It sounds a bit like learning a foreign language,’ Rachel said. ‘At first, you translate everything and then, without noticing it’s happened, you find yourself thinking in the new language and speaking without translating.’

‘And even dreaming in that language,’ Jake added, eyes locked with Angela’s, grateful for Rachel’s interruption.

‘I never realised,’ Angela said. ‘I knew you did detailed preparations but...’

‘But you never knew he was that crazy.’ Adam emptied his glass. ‘Shall we play a rubber? Eat later?’

Jake ignored him. ‘What about you, Angela? Are you still at Amnesty?’

‘Just back there, after a year in Tanzania with Save the Children.’

‘Where she met a handsome anthropologist called Ben,’ Rachel said.

‘Oh yes?’

Now Angela did look away; was that a blush rising up her neck?

‘Come on, time for bridge.’ Adam stood up. The others stayed seated.

Angela looked at Adam on her left, back at Rachel on her right. She’s avoiding my eyes, Jake thought. Who is this Ben? Friend or lover, past or present? Why did she want me to come if she’s entwined with bloody Ben? She’s not getting up, wants me to ask about Ben. Damned if I’m going to.

The blue baize card table, edged in French walnut and shaped like a dropped handkerchief, stood in front of the stainless-steel fireplace at the far end of the long room, corralled by four matching upholstered dining chairs. Two new, unopened, packs of cards had been placed in perfect alignment with a score pad and pencil.

Adam dimmed the chrome wall lights and turned up the finely engineered factory light that hung from galvanised wire over the table. Very theatrical, very considered, like everything in Adam-the-architect’s house. He opened a pack and shuffled. ‘Highest and lowest play together.’

Jake snatched the top card and flung it on the table: a two. He didn’t want to partner Angela. If they won, she’d see it as just part of how well life was going; but if they lost, she’d blame it on lack of communication between them. Why think like that? For all he knew, this Ben was a holiday romance, soon forgotten, a continent away. He willed her to pick a middling number, but she drew a king, Rachel a ten, Adam an eight.

‘Your deal, Angela,’ Adam said.

Jake risked a glance at her face. She smiled, but not at him. She smiled and dealt at the same time. Probably thinking about Ben. She looked at her cards and passed. Adam bid one heart. Although he had opening points, Jake passed, and Adam and Rachel bid and made four hearts, giving them game.

‘Hell, Jake, you could have opened,’ Adam said. ‘What did you have? Must have been at least fourteen points.’

‘Appalling distribution though.’

‘I don’t know, those five high diamonds were a good match for Angela’s four low ones,’ Adam said. ‘No, you definitely should have bid. Absolutely.’

Blood surged up his neck. ‘Are we going to have a bloody post-mortem after each hand?’

‘Hey, guys, let’s not argue,’ Angela said. ‘Your deal, Adam.’

After Adam passed, Jake looked at his cards, counted